


that woman of yours

by AMazeofCold (CarterReid)



Series: longing to be longed for [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Internal Conflict, Jealous John Watson, Jealousy, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Minor Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Pining John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24488383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarterReid/pseuds/AMazeofCold
Summary: John's heart skipped when Sherlock's eyes drifted over him dismissively and landed squarely on her, because he'd always hoped, in his darkest moments, that Sherlock might look at him that way.But he never did.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: longing to be longed for [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787842
Comments: 4
Kudos: 81





	that woman of yours

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, torturing John it becoming a bit of a pattern which is *awkward* and I should probably get that checked but whatta'ya gonna do...?
> 
> Rights to Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss and everyone else, of course.
> 
> Stay safe,  
> -R.

Irene Adler is a hurricane. 

She tears through Baker Street, through Sherlock, with as much care and damage as gale force winds, laughing and nude while she does it. The flat is in disarray, Sherlock's mind is scattered and he wraps himself in bedsheets, vowing not to leave the flat for anything less than a nine. 

It used to be a seven.

Sherlock is entranced by her, picking up every text, and John has to bite his tongue until it bleeds just to stop the _hurt-pain-longing_ that rips through him at the sight. Because Sherlock was his, once. It was John Watson who held the compliments and the smiles and kept Sherlock's attention despite being _normal_ and an _idiot_ -

" _Don't worry John, nearly everyone is._ "

But now, it's her.

She's beautiful and smart and matches Sherlock quip for quip. She can keep up - she has _kept_ up - and John hates that he can't. He can't deny the good things she brings, so instead he focuses on the bad. He urges caution and hopes his carefulness is mistaken for concern rather than the ugly snot-coloured thing settled in his bones.

Jealousy is a foreign mistress. He's been envious before, of course. Everyone wants something someone else already had, but Sherlock was **his** first, and so it stings twice as much. He's lost ownership of Sherlock's attention - _no,_ he's been **robbed** of it. The green lady, she sits on his chest and tightens her grip until he's gasping into the quiet of his room at two o'clock in the morning, tears pricking his eyes. It shouldn't make him feel so worthless, so useless, so dirty for being in love with Sherlock - his best friend, married to his work - but he does. The sensation is unrelenting. He doesn't want Sherlock to change, not even enough to notice the awkward half-flirting that slips from John's lips when he's not guarding them carefully enough, but, but _but -_

The guilt at the feelings, at the feeling of anger and loss; the guilt at thinking Sherlock belonged to him or _owed_ him something, work its way deep into his soul.

 _He owes nothing to a worthless thing like you_ , the voice in his mind hisses, all twisted with self-hatred, fear and _don't-ask-don't-tell_.

John can't help the first time he lets his tongue move without a filter, asking after _her_. He has to **know**. Sherlock looks at him strangely. And, well, when he mentions baby names, the reaction is of disbelief, but her, _her - **the woman**_ \- she see's right through him. She _knows_.

She can see the burning jealousy curl its way around his brainstem and the thorns that are digging into the red-meat of his heart. He feels splayed open and raw under her gaze, her _knowing_ gaze, and she seems to accept a challenge he never intended to give. Irene smiles that awful, flirting, knowing smile and takes the moment to lock his gaze before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. John almost throws his mug across the room. 

And then Sherlock starts to talk. Showing off, showing just how _clever_ he is, solving the case quicker than John has ever seen him. John's heart skips when Sherlock's eyes drift over him dismissively and landed squarely on her, watching her reaction to him, watching her be impressed. He'd always hoped, in his darkest moments, that Sherlock might look at him that way but now he can only watch and hurt.

Oh god, he _hurts_.

Later, he goes out, turns into the nearest alley, slumps down to his haunches and lets his bleeding heart _break_. He lets himself have a minute, only a minute, then he stands shakily and just _moves_.

Things get better after Irene leaves. (Sherlock never talks about her and John never brings her up - why _would_ he?) But the hole is still in his heart. 

Molly knows. She sees the same look on her face every morning, after all, so missing it on John's is impossible for a woman of her intellect. 

"You could tell him, you know," she offers, sipping at the tea she'd made only moments before. They're in a morgue and _shouldn't-be-drinking-in-here_ but neither are really great with rules. 

"You know why I can't," the soldier replies, all stiff words and hard lines. 

"He could, I don't know, surprise you," she continues sweetly - _bravely_. "You two are a good team."

John barks out a laugh. "He's my best friend," he mutters with a shrug, barely comfortable with saying the words aloud, "and I can't _lose_ that."

Molly hesitates. "I don't think Sherlock would let you lose that," she offers. "He does love you John."

"Not like that."

"How'd you know?" she asks, strong and _unyielding_.

It's then that Sherlock returns, breezing in with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. "I'm finished John if you're ready to leave," he announces, before pausing. "What are you two talking about?"

"Love," Molly replies swiftly. "There's a new receptionist. He told me I was beautiful." Not a word of it is a lie, they'd started there and Molly's going out with him on Friday. _She's moving on_ , John had thought when she told him. She'd seen the look in his eyes and smiled, laying a hand on John's. _Sherlock doesn't love **me** , John, _she'd breathed, _and so I need to learn to not love **him**_.

John's tried that. He's cycled through enough women to try, and to fail, _thoroughly_.

"How dull," Sherlock replies, eyes skittering over John and away. 

"Sherlock," the Captain rebukes as he notices a half flinch from his friend.

"Uh, yes, I'm sure he does find you beautiful," the man muddles through in way of apology. It's enough for Molly, it seems.

John stands, obedient, and offers Molly a smile loaded with more gratitude than he can express. She nods, once, and that's that, for the moment.

For a little while, even.

Then Mycroft appears, a spook cloaked in shadow, and he sequesters the pair of them in the cafe and hands over a file. 

Sherlock's woman is dead. 

"It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me," Mycroft hums, amused. Something flickers through his gaze for a moment. "So...?"

John could do the selfish thing, he knows. But this is _Sherlock_ , and John's never been selfish when it comes to the Consulting Detective.

"Witness Protection," he chokes on the words, forcing back the tears and the bile and the twisted part that wants to confess... but the black haired genius, immune to his emotional turmoil, doesn't stir. He barely blinks when he confesses he'd had _more_ texts.

"Goodbye Mr. Holmes," Sherlock enunciates. John's heart stalls. Oh _god_. Then, Sherlock asks and John? - 

John cannot deny him. 

Irene Adler haunts him again, winning in her muddy exile, keeping his heart in her fist even from beyond the grave. Her phone, the phone that caused so much trouble, sits in his flat. Sometime's it's behind the kettle, other times it's in the draw, once it was beside the skull. John keeps finding it and his teeth grit and the lines of his shoulders pull taut every time he does.

Sherlock notices, of course, but attributes it to John's dislike of the mess. He doesn't ever know. Even Mycroft, all-knowing Mycroft, making an off-handed comment doesn't shed any light on the matter. The older Holmes doesn't try again because between John's vicious need to guard his heart - and his friendship with Sherlock - and his reckless and regular use of an unlicensed service weapon, the soldier wouldn't hesitate to reinforce the glare with lead. And Mycroft knows it.

They all know, he thinks, in some small way just how **much** he loves Sherlock, and _how_. He's not subtle. Even after years of trying and successfully hiding behind slurs that make his stomach twist and a uniform that says he isn't like that, subtlety runs away when faced with the love of his life.

Sherlock doesn't see everything, however much John wants him to see this. 

~~Doesn't want.~~

Wants.

In a way, it's probably because John's convinced he can wait. He knows patience, endurance, persistence - he's a soldier - and he knows how to love from afar. He can wait, entertaining the fragile hope of _one day_ , maybe even _one day soon._ He thinks he has time - time to inch closer and closer until their knees brush. Closer until he can take his hand and just _hold_ it. Closer until he can press soft, gentle kisses to Sherlock's cheeks, his neck, his lips, everywhere, because he's allowed and Sherlock _wants_ _him too_. John thinks he has time to hold and soothe and laugh and marvel at the wonder of the most brilliant man he's ever known - 

He has time.

After all, neither of them are going anywhere. 

Then Sherlock steps off a roof and John's last conscious thought for a while is:

 _Oh, he's picked her then_.

**Author's Note:**

> No beta so apologies for any mistakes :) 
> 
> Love to you all,  
> -R.


End file.
